


Touché

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [80]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Fencing, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: While meeting a friend at a fencing academy Greg witnesses a series of rounds between twosabreurs. One a Master of Arms in the academy and the breathtaking fencer referred to as Professor who reminds Greg of a certain enigmatic man that also leaves him breathless.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [80]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1090899
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	Touché

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Short

“My great-grandmother’s home in Windsor was broken into in to the late 80s, where some things are stolen that were then passed around and/or fenced off out of the country and here we are now, all these years later, finding out - through a series of flukes, mind you - that the vase was destroyed in a tornado that ripped apart a residential area in the American mid-west where the occupants had no bloody idea that the pretty vase just collecting dust in their living room was a Qianlong dragon vase worth several million pounds.” The man shook his head disbelievingly.

_That’s it in a nutshell._

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade gave a sympathetic nod at the succinct summary. “It was easier to fence off something like that back then and harder to trace, but as you said, through a series flukes here we are Lloyd. As a friend I know once said to me: _the_ _universe is rarely that lazy_.”

Greg Lestrade and Lloyd Jacoby met when Greg was barely two years out of the police academy. The young cop was a witness in a case where the young Lloyd was the prosecuting barrister and they retained the friendship formed in those early days. The two were already set to catch up with each other later that day when a fellow officer working on an insurance fraud case came across the family name, and knowing of the friendship, informed Lestrade.

“Bah!” Lloyd dismissed it with a slight wave of his hand as he packed his gear, “Well thanks for coming here to tell me, personally mate. Glad you did, let me get changed and you and me go have those pints, it’s been an age…”

“Lloyd! He’s here!”

Lloyd is interrupted when an urgent hand tapped him repeatedly on his shoulder and pointed to some place behind Greg.

There had been a mix of conversations, feet shuffling, beeps sounding and of course the constant yells of combatants over the clashing of swords in the salle at the fencing Academy. Greg noticed the overall noise of the room had lessened a bit and turned to look.

“ ** _Professor_** is here?” Lloyd gasped reverently about to walk away when he remembered Greg, “Come, you don’t have to know the finer points to appreciate a master at work.”

Curiosity over the restrained excitement that took over his friend made him want to see, which was a good thing, as he was not given much choice when Lloyd grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

“En-garde!”

A small crowd had gathered around a piste where two white clad fencers faced off. The two _sabreurs_ saluted one another, the official, and the crowd before facing each other again.

There is tension and anticipation in the air between the two fencers and the crowd as all awaited the official’s hand and vocal signal.

“Fence!”

“The slightly shorter one, Daniels is a Master at Arms - one of, if not the best, of the fencers here at the Academy and Professor, who rarely comes by anymore, is better.” Lloyd explained in a hushed voice as the bout began.

Daniels was very vocal as he made a touche while Professor was near silent, the occasional grunt being his only noise in concession to the points made by his opponent. He did not need to vocalize, instead he let the buzzer and lights that signaled the strikes made on his opponent do the speaking as he quickly scored and won the bout.

“Wow, he’s good!”

Greg found himself short of breath watching the bouts. There was no denying the taller man was better. Clearly, he was this _Professor_ spoken of with such reverence.

“Yes, he is. I heard he was personally trained by former Olympian Aladár Gerevich. That Gerevich had heard about him and came to Britain to personally train him. Professor was his last student before he died. They say that Professor was Olympic caliber himself, but he did not care to pursue it as profession. Shame really, it would have been guaranteed gold for the UK had he competed.”

Even to his inexperienced eyes Greg could see that the man excelled.

“They’re only tapping the chest with the point of the blade, I thought fencers could use all the blade?” Greg asked.

“You’re thinking of Sabre, a different type of fencing. This is Foil. Foil and Épée fencing are where a point is only gained by touching an opponent with the tip of the blade.” Lloyd explained. “Both excel at all three disciplines.”

Where it seemed to be almost the norm for most fencers, the Professor continued to hold himself with a quiet dignified stance. His movements seemed economical, yet fluid and done with such grace it almost made his opponent appear to be merely hacking at him in comparison. 

_Something about Professor reminds me of Mycroft... Oh hell._

Mycroft Holmes, mysterious older brother to the world’s only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes. Arrogant and nearly insufferable with an intelligence that surpassed the brilliancy his younger brother. The man had grated on Greg’s nerves sorely when they first met years ago. Mycroft had made no bones in expressing his disdain for most people on the planet, including Greg. The man’s sole saving grace was their shared interest in keeping the sometimes self-destructive tendencies of Sherlock in check. Mycroft was often high-handed in their dealings, but the love of his brother was evident. In the years since Greg had grown to understand the enigmatic man and then to like him.

Visions of the man ghosted his mind:

  * Long elegant fingers gently twisting the stem of a wine glass. 
  * Bespoke three-piece suits with pocket watches on a long limbed frame. 
  * Cool slate eyes under a single raised dark auburn brow. 
  * Lips slightly curved in a rarely seen honest smile.
  * A smooth voice as cultured in its compliments as it is cuttings in its condemnations.



_Why can’t I get him out of my bloody head?_

Greg bit his inner lip and forced himself to breathe through the short moment of breathlessness that sometimes happened when thoughts of one the most powerful men on earth snuck into his mind of late.

_You can’t have that; you know this. He’s called Iceman for a reason. He wants no one, especially the likes of a rough around the edges man like you._

Greg wrenched his thoughts to the newest bout starting before him.

When Greg and Lloyd walked over, the two men had just finished a Foil bout. Another Foil and an Épée match soon followed. The Professor had won those rounds. While Daniels had taken his mask off for a breather between bouts as they changed jackets and swords, Professor had remained in his. Even after the last Épée match, Professor had kept his mask on during the slight change of uniform, connectors and swords in preparation for the final round in Sabre.

“Now it gets interesting.” Lloyd was almost giddy as the two combatants gave a final salute and took position.

He was not kidding; the Foil and Epee matches were gentlemanly compared to the fast-moving Sabre. A mad dash for points, it was much more aggressive than the other two disciplines and Daniels had quickly racked up touche points compared to Professor.

“I think I could have blocked that last touche. Is he… Is Professor _letting_ the other fencer, Daniels, score?” Greg’s brow furrowed as yet another touche was scored by the Master of Arms.

“Good eye.” Lloyd nodded, “It’s the final bout for them. Daniels is eight points to Professor’s five. No one has scored more than ten touches on Professor in nearly a decade. He’s toying with Daniels and now Daniels knows it. Just watch.”

The professor had been fencing mostly defensively, only letting in the touches he wanted. That the professor had been in control the entire time became abundantly clear when he suddenly went into offence. Feet moving swiftly, but decisively, his sword tip, moved even faster.

Greg remembered reading somewhere that, aside from a moving bullet, the tip of a fencing blade is the fastest moving object in sports. The tip was a blur as the professor rapidly gained points on his opponent. Daniels yelled in victory to get that tenth touche which tied the game at that point.

Then the points became Daniels:10 – Professor:13 with less than ten seconds on the clock. Greg understood Professor was already the winner with the most between them even if he did not score the complete the fifteen points. That was not the goal now.

Daniels had less than ten seconds to earn the bragging rights of that elusive eleventh point on Professor. It showed in Daniels’ bearing that he was going to go for it, just as it showed in Professor’s bearing that he absolutely was not going to let that happen.

Greg felt as if those were the fastest less than ten seconds of his life in the vicious swift tangle of thrusts and parries that ensued.

Greg gave a sharp gasp, his body demanding the intake of breath he had not realized he held.

“You okay?” Lloyd looked over at him, Greg merely nodded completely entranced.

Then those less than ten seconds seemed to freeze for a moment, the final one.

With his sword arm extended, the opposite arm held out in a smooth arc for balance, it was ballet elegance, but it was the stretch of the knickers and long socks over the man’s legs that that drew Greg’s eyes. The highlights and shadows against the stark white material gave the momentarily taunt thigh muscles definition as those less than ten seconds ended when the Professor made a sudden final lunge.

Daniels’ body was slightly curved in the vain and too slow attempt to avoid the blade tip that made contact with the breast of his lame, where his heart would be and buzzed; immediately followed by the buzz of the game clock. The bout was over.

Final score Daniels:10 – Professor:15.

If Greg had thought he was short of breath before, it was nothing that compared to what took his breath away next.

The Professor who had been relatively quiet throughout the matches made up for it as he suddenly dropped to his knees and ripped off his mask throwing it aside. With arms outstretched, sword and fingers raised to the sky he let loose a primal roar of victory. The muscles of the victor's throat seized in the near animalistic glory in his vocalizations. Greg was utterly stunned to recognize the sweaty mussed hair and contorted face with bared teeth,

_MYCROFT‽‽_

Greg barely acknowledged Lloyd who went to shower as the gathered crowd had slowly dispersed. The two now-former combatants shook hands as they cleared their equipment and surrendered the piste to new fencers. Greg could all but see the walls of ice rebuild around the man as Mycroft returned to his normal countenance.

_No, not yet._

“Hello Professor.” Greg caught up to Mycroft who blinked at the sight of him.

“Gregory!”

Greg realized this was one of the rare times he has caught the man completely off-guard.

_This is even better than the first time I made you laugh out loud._

This was also the first he had seen Mycroft Holmes in anything other than a three-piece suit. Mycroft gave a nod to Daniels who said his good-byes and walked away after introductions.

“I knew you were an intellectual beast, but this physical prowess you’ve hidden under those gorgeous suits of yours is _quite_ the revelation. And I liked it – a lot.” Greg could not help it as his eyes roamed the fencing uniform.

A dark auburn brow shot up and Greg realized what he just said.

_Oh my God! I’m flirting with Mycroft Holmes! AM I CRAZY?!_

“I do believe that…” Mycroft’s crisp voice held a tone that Greg knew from experience was going to throw cold water on the moment.

_He sensed my near panic. No, I want this, very much._

As he thinks the words, he feels the veracity of them.

“...that you’re going out to dinner with me on Friday and not as a Sherlock update.” Greg interrupted him.

“That was not a question.” Mycroft blinked. Greg knew on a normal person that would the equivalent of a jaw drop.

“No, it was not.” Greg raised a brow in challenge.

“I see…”

He kept his eyes on the man as Mycroft’s cool grey eyes scanned him.

_I like you more than I probably should, but I’m not backing away from you, Mycroft Holmes._

“Will pickup be by car or motorcycle?” there was a hint of mischief in the man’s cool eyes.

“Why?” Greg grinned at the acceptance implied by the response.

“Because your riding leathers shed light on the physical prowess you’ve hidden under those horrid suits you wear for work and it is _quite_ the revelation.”

Greg knows he has never been anywhere near Mycroft when he was on his Harley.

“You’ve… you’ve seen me on cameras leaving Sherlock’s flat.” He accused the man.

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted, “and I liked it – a lot.”

_Oh my God! Mycroft Holmes is flirting with me! AM I DREAMIMG?!_

“Also, so I’ll know whether to wear my suit trousers or jeans.”

“You _own_ jeans?”

“I will by Friday.” Mycroft stated with his usual stoicism.

Greg bit the inside of his lip to stop his grin; and because he was looking in Mycroft's eyes he did not miss it when they flicked to his lips.

He realized then it was not the first time Mycroft had done so. In fact, quite a few things became stunningly clear.

 _Mycroft Holmes does_ nothing _he does not want to do. Yet he agreed to Friday._

_He… he likes me! Mycroft Holmes LIKES me!_

And a plethora of possibilities Greg had not dared to dream would ever be available to him were suddenly within reach.

“ _En-garde_ then Mr. Holmes, I’m going to give you such a ride.”

_Bloody hell! What did I just say?!_

“ _Touché_ , by your choice of words Mr. Lestrade.” Mycroft’s lip quirked at Greg’s mortification at the obviously unintentional innuendo, “Perhaps someday, Gregory… But not on the first date.”

Greg slowly closed his gaped mouth at the words implied as Mycroft walked away.

Neither man had any way of knowing that in a few short days Greg would be proven right.

And Mycroft would be proven wrong.


End file.
